


The Coded Letter

by katekane



Category: Bletchley Circle
Genre: Bechdel Test Pass, Codes & Ciphers, Gen, Homosexuality, Multi, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 19:51:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/601456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katekane/pseuds/katekane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A coded letter is at the heart of a murder case. When Susan, aided by her colleagues at Bletchley Park, volunteers her assistance, the letter affects her life in unexpected ways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Coded Letter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [belantana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/belantana/gifts).



> Dear belantana,
> 
> When I received my assignment I was both thrilled and a little frightened... I sense you have a fondness for history, the 40s in particular, and to be honest I know very little about that time period. So I've actually spent a great deal of time doing research for this story - reading and watching documentaries about Bletchley park and code breaking, fashion, slang, legislation etc. of the era, and found myself very intrigued along the way. You helped me broaden my historical horizon a little - thank you for that :) 
> 
> And happy Yuletide!

# The Coded Letter

## A Bletchley Circle story

### Chapter One: Family Responsibilities

“Brrr… The sensational Stocking Stick [1] may be ‘no muss, no fuss’, but it most definitely wasn’t invented with the British winter in mind, I’ll tell you that much!”  
  
The alto voice was accompanied by the sound of shoes being kicked off followed by slightly muffled, yet determined steps across carpet. Millie, a woman in her mid twenties and the owner of the voice, was headed directly for her bed and looked neither left nor right before throwing herself unceremoniously on it. The way she was sprawled across and soon partially wrapped up in sheets and blankets seemed a little at odds with her rather impeccable outfit: A sky blue, shoulder-padded dress, held tightly in place with an elegant leather belt, and matching head-scarf.  
  
Susan, the other occupant of the relatively small room, only glanced up briefly. “I didn’t think you wore leg makeup?” From her tone of voice no one would have guessed that she in fact was completely engrossed in the task laid out before her. Susan had always been adept at parallel processing and was perfectly capable of performing complex mathematical calculations while holding a conversation.  
  
The bundle that was Millie gave a shrug. “The national spirit got to me. If my silk can save a pilot somewhere…”  
  
“You had a runner, didn’t you?” Susan was repressing a smile, but it was audible in her voice.  
  
Millie, immediately picking up on it, feigned offence. “What? You don’t believe I’m a patriot at heart?”  
  
“I know you’re a fashionista at heart,” Susan said without missing a beat, already enjoying their banter, even if she did her best not to let on. Before Millie she had never known anyone with whom she could have this kind of quick-paced, back-and-forth exchange.  
  
“Well, nothing wrong with adding a bit of beauty to dark times. I’m sure it heightens the spirit.”  
  
“Bare legs are good for morale? Really?” This time the smile did sneak into Susan’s face as she finally properly looked at her roommate through more than a year. Apart from stray locks of reddish-brown hair Millie’s upper half was completely covered by blankets. One of the bare legs in question, however, was dangling from the edge of the bed. The hem of Millie’s dress had ridden up and given way to a shapely thigh that appeared smooth as silk even if technically there wasn’t any.  
  
“Who said anything about morale? I’m talking about spirits! Speaking of spirits, is there any of our precious brandy left? I could use some to warm me up.”  
  
It wasn’t until Millie sat up and smoothed down her dress as well as the blanket that Susan realised she had been staring at her. More specifically, at one particular part of her. She turned her head away so quickly her neck gave an ominous crack and hoped the dim light would prevent Millie from noticing the blush she felt creeping into her cheeks. Her hopelessly impractically pale cheeks.  
  
Fortunately something else caught Millie’s attention. “Did I miss an air raid?”  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
“I know there’s a war going on outside, but it appears one’s been going on in here as well.”  
  
Susan was about to object; she liked tidiness. Her small bookcase was never too full. Her bed was generally made. And it had taken her months to pick up on the woman’s lodging custom of covering one’s wall in picture collages; she thought the neatly rose-patterned tapestry was decorative enough on its own. No, Millie was by far the messier one of the two. The unwashed mug and magazines on the table by the window, the bra and the scarves thrown haphazardly across the back of one of the armchairs all belonged to her. But then Susan followed Millie’s look and gesturing hands and the objection died on her tongue.  
  
The floor, Susan’s bed, and the closest armchair were covered in papers of all sizes and colours. Some stacked, some in lines, some according to more intricate patterns. Patterns that might by an outside observer be mistaken for… well, a mess.  
  
“Oh, that… There is a system,” was all the explanation Susan could muster.  
  
Millie raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow at that. “Care to elaborate?”  
  
It always intrigued Susan how, even when grimacing, Millie managed to do so with and air of sophistication. It wasn’t just her spiffy clothes or perfectly applied lipstick. It was something inherent, something to do with the lines of her face, with those eyebrows.  
  
“Susan?” The second eye-brow joined the first and Susan remembered she had been asked a question.  
  
“Certainly. It’s a… a little task my cousin put me up to,” Susan stuttered while pressing a not quite cool hand against her own make-up-less, but not exactly colourless face. She cleared her throat and miraculously managed to sound composed when she continued: “My cousin works for the police, you see, and is currently involved in a murder investigation.”  
  
“Murder?” Raised eye-brows stayed in place as Millie got up and wrapped the blanket more properly around herself. “As in good old, arsenic and cyanide murder?”  
  
“Yes.” Susan smiled, somewhat relieved at the turn their conversation was taking. Murders were exciting. Nothing wrong with being a little flushed when trying to solve one. No need to go into self-analytical mode. “Although I believe in this case the victim took a blow to the head.”  
  
“Golly.” Millie crossed the room on tiptoes almost like a dancer, or perhaps a Greek nymph wrapped in a makeshift toga, careful not to disturb any of Susan’s work. “As if there weren’t enough killings going on these days.”  
  
“A young man – a tenant of the victim – has been arrested for the murder, only my cousin doesn’t believe he’s guilty and needs my help to prove it.”  
  
“By jotting down lottery numbers and stacking them onto our carpet?”  
  
Normally Susan would have come up with a quick-witted response, but she was momentarily distracted by the feel of the bed dipping right next to her and settled for a simple ‘no’, before adding: “The case is built on circumstantial evidence; some war-critical literature and, most importantly, what appears to be a coded message discovered in the tenant’s room. The theory goes that the man is involved in espionage, his landlord found out and had to be silenced.”  
  
“But your cousin disagrees.” It was more of a statement than a question.  
  
“Yes.” Susan nodded pensively. “Sam has known the young man since he was a child and doesn’t believe he has it in him to betray his country, much less kill anyone.” She kept her eyes trained on the piece of paper in her lap, traced its edges with her thumb and forefinger. “The key to cleansing him clearly lies in this coded message, and that’s where I come in to the picture.”  
  
“What?!” Millie jerked so wildly the spring mattress they were currently sharing nearly sent Susan flying. “Your cousin knows you break codes? You’ve told him about our work?!”  
  
A sense of the theatrical was one of Millie’s defining characteristics; she could be as deliberate about her gestures and tone of voice as she was with her clothes. However, there was no doubt her current horrified expression was genuine. It was Millie who put up one of the ‘Careless Talk Costs Lives’-posters [2] on their wall. Sure, she had insisted it was because she carried a torch for the winking fellow in the picture, but Susan knew that regardless of her routinely dismissal of numerous rules Millie was in awe of the Secrets Act. She might be of a rebellious nature, she might seem carefree – but she was never careless.  
  
“Of course I haven’t,” Susan assured her friend, almost reaching out to her before she stopped herself. Her outstretched hand landed between them on the bed, palm facing upwards. It was a compromise of sorts and would do for now, even if she would surely spend time over-thinking the gesture in solitude later on. “But everyone knows I’m good with patterns, letters, numbers… When I came in a close second in the crossword competition that landed me the job here, the results were printed in the paper.” [3]  
  
“Right.” Millie was simultaneously nodding and letting out a long sigh of relief. “8 minutes, 7 seconds. I remember.”  
  
“Right.” Susan was unable to prevent a smile from sneaking into her face. Millie didn’t have a photographic memory, the way their colleague Lucy did, yet Susan’s time in a competition that had taken place before the two women even met had stuck. Yet another bullet point to add to the growing list of things not to be dwelled upon.  
  
“So,” Millie said, scooting somewhat closer. “What’s your verdict so far? Is it a code or a cipher?”  
  
Susan blinked, to clear her head as much as her vision. “A cipher of sorts. There are too many repeat numbers for a code, but far more than the letters of the alphabet, so we are not talking simple substitution. Some kind of transposition algorithm must be involved.” She gestured towards her ‘system’ on the floor. The floor was safe. The floor was something to look at.  
  
However, Millie was more interested in the paper Susan had been reading minutes before. “Is that the original message?” she asked, reaching for it.  
  
“No, a transcript.” Susan handed it to her friend before she managed to snap it off of her lap, and in the process of leaning forward she felt a sharp pain in her neck. “The police have the original, but my cousin insisted they were identical,” she added as she carefully rolled her head from side to side, unable to keep from wincing.  
  
“Something wrong with your neck?” Millie asked, paper seemingly forgotten.  
  
The answer was yes, and Susan, recalling the cracking sound when she had tried to turn away from Millie to hide a blush earlier, was well aware of exactly what had caused the discomfort. Only she couldn’t possibly share that detail and turned to a small, plausible lie. “Just… too many hours working the bombe.” [4]  
  
Millie gave her a sympathetic look, familiar with the muscle infiltrations that inevitably followed from turning the rotators of the more than six by six feet electromechanical giant for seven hours on end. Before Susan had a chance to move Millie gingerly touched one of her shoulders.  
  
“Maybe I can help,” she offered. The ghost of a coy smirk snuck into her features as she added: “I’ve been told I have skilled fingers.”  
  
“No, no,” Susan nearly jumped as said fingers found their way past the collar of her rayon pyjamas and curved around the base of her neck. They were a little cold, probably from being outside, which possibly explained the chill they sent down Susan’s spine. Possibly. “It’s...” Susan felt her gaze flickering. From Millie’s wrist, the light that caught in her bracelet, to her left eye, her right eye and back again. “I’d rather just sleep it off,” she said with enough finality in her voice to make Millie withdraw her hand. The chill went away with it.  
  
The tension that had accompanied it, however, did not. If anything, it seemed to spread and settle in the silence between them. The small clock on Susan’s bedside table ticked off each seconds with an obnoxiously sharp sound that seemed to grow in volume as if thrown between the walls like an echo in a much larger room. Beneath that there was the faint rhythmical clatter of the window against its frame.  
  
Then Millie spoke, before Susan had to, and the moment was gone.  
  
“So.” She held the coded message closer to the lamp on Susan’s bedside table. “Lines and lines of four digits numbers. No spaces, no punctuation. Why doesn’t your cousin simply have the suspect translate the message and move on?”  
  
“Because he refuses to,” Susan replied simply. “Which unfortunately makes him look even more guilty.”  
  
Millie let the paper drop into her own lap with a frown. “Well, if he isn’t guilty, then he’s an idiot or suicidal or both. He is facing murder charges and military tribunal. What secret could possibly be worth risking two times death penalty??”  
  
  
  


### Chapter Two: Spotting an Amateur

“2261 appears twice in this line.” Millie tapped the line in question with a perfectly manicured finger. A crumb fell from the roll in her hand onto the paper laid out in front of them.  
  
Susan quickly brushed it away. “It appears several times. So we might theorize it refers to one of the more common letters or that it refers to different things each time.”  
  
 _2421-2311-1261-4211-2261-6421-8261-3421-2261-5161-1331-1322-2261..._  
  
They both stared at the line in silence, each lost to her own thoughts for a few minutes, until Millie’s pensive expression turned speculative. “If only we could use the bombe for this...” she threw a glance over her shoulder in the direction of the closest hut that housed one of the gigantic machines.  
  
Susan had been about to take a bite of her own roll, but froze in the middle of the procedure, mouth slightly agape, while her glance whipped towards Millie. Surely her friend was kidding. But oh no, on the contrary, Millie countered Susan’s alarmed expression with a slightly arched eyebrow almost as if daring Susan to voice her objection out loud. Before she managed to, however, a third voice interrupted.  
  
“Writing to one of your soldiers again? I don’t suppose you introduce them to one another.”  
  
Jean, their supervisor and direct superior, was apparently joining them for lunch. Her meal seemed the counterpart to her tight hair bun and neatly ironed, buttoned-up shirt: A sandwich cut into two perfect rectangled isosceles triangles and a glass of water.  
  
Always game, Millie straightened in her chair. “No, I don’t see why one soldier should be concerned with the other,” she said with studied casualness. “I have a big heart. Plenty to go round.”  
  
A splash of water spilled from Jean’s glass at that and she had to leave in search of a napkin before even managing to seat herself. She didn’t utter one word, but the look she sent Millie was worth a thousand expletives.  
  
Millie’s air of innocent nonchalance dissolved into a giggle fit the moment Jean was out of ear shot.  
  
It was contagious and Susan quickly had to give up on her attempt at disapproval and merely shook her head. “You do realise one of these days you are going to give her a stroke.”  
  
“Nah, Jean is not as buttoned-up as she acts. She enjoys our banters,” Millie insisted, but Susan neither nodded nor hummed her consent, and so Millie leaned in to whisper conspiratorially: “I swear I once saw the corners of her mouth twitch upwards... Aha! And yours did, too, just now.”  
  
Susan, momentarily caught off guard by the fact that she could feel Millie’s breath brush against her profile as she spoke, merely shook her head again and took another bite of her bun.  
  
Millie, seemingly oblivious, sat back up and continued in her normal voice.  
  
“Besides, once the war is over the boys will forget all about me if they make it back alive. They’ll be too thrilled at all the other options laid out before them.” She shrugged, picking up and eating crumbs off of her plate. “I only write to them because they need any consolation they can get out there. That’s all. Jean understands that.” Suddenly her hand stopped midway and dropped, and when she leaned in for the second time in few minutes there was nothing theatrical about the gesture. “You... You understand that too, right?” she said quietly, but insistently. “That I haven’t given nor promised my heart to any of them?”  
  
Millie’s eyes were brown, a pleasant, warm brown, but right now her gaze felt almost scalding, yet Susan couldn’t make herself look away as she wondered whether her friend was less oblivious than she let on. Not that it mattered. Susan knew it did not matter, because the only option was to diffuse this, whatever it was. “I wouldn’t-” she began, when Jean once again cut in.  
  
This time, however, no one could mistake her remark for good-natured banter.  
  
Jean was furious; her words nearly drowning in the childhood dialect that always thickened when her emotions got the upper hand. “Are you discussing work during your lunch break?!”  
  
“No! Of course not,” Millie quickly assured her, “’Do not talk at meals, do not talk in the transport, do not talk travelling, do not talk in the billet, do not talk by your own fireside, be careful even in your Hut...’ We know the rules.” [5]  
  
Susan nodded, once again struck by the paradox that was Millie. She rebelliously suggested they sneak their hobby into the bombe operating room, but when it came to bringing confidential work outside she rattled off security instructions in a way only Lucy’s eidetic memory could compete with.  
  
It seemed to work. Jean visibly relaxed; her shoulders fell and she finally properly seated herself. “Care to explain what exactly you are doing then? That’s clearly not a letter.” She nodded towards the paper on the table. “It looks like a cipher.”

“It is, but it has nothing to do with our work at Bletchley,” Millie said. “It’s just... a pastime. Like...”

“Like a crossword.” Susan helpfully pushed the paper towards their superior, eager to do whatever it took to completely rid the air of any suspicion of unprofessional conduct. “A puzzle.”

Jean nodded slowly, comprehension dawning on her face. “I should have seen that immediately. It is much too simple for military intelligence.”

“Simple? You believe this is simple?” Susan’s head shot up.

“Why, yes. You weren’t going at it with complicated algorithms were you?”

“Certainly not.” Susan grabbed one of the napkins Jean had brought and hid her flushing cheeks behind it, glad that Jean could not see the state her and Millie’s room was currently in.Although it pained her, she had to ask. “Why... Why should we not be using algorithms?”

“Well, it looks rather simple, and if it’s a puzzle from a magazine then the creator wouldn’t have access to advanced encryption-decryption machinery.” Jean looked at her watch and sighed; her lunch break was clearly over before it ever really began, and she dutifully got up and gathered her belongings. “There’s no need to pull out heavy artillery when dealing with an amateur’s work,” she concluded before once again leaving the roommates to their own company.

“Amateur’s work...” Millie mumbled, her expression indicating that she almost, almost stuck her tongue out at Jean’s retreating form. “What exactly is she implying? That we, too, are amateurs just because we can’t magically crack this thing?!”

“Amateur ciphers aren’t necessarily easy to break. Quite the contrary.” Susan picked up the paper and scrutinized it closely, as if she might see something she hadn’t seen the other 117 times she had looked at it. “Whereas professional ciphers are mostly used to encrypt large quantities of data with some repetition involved, such as weather forecasts or phrases like ‘nothing to report’, amateur ciphers typically lack depth and predictable cribs.”

Millie was clearly not impressed by Susan’s analysis. “In other words: We have absolutely nothing to go on.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Susan said thoughtfully, “Jean is right; we don’t have to look for advanced decryption algorithms. We know that now. This is a cipher probably based solely on substitution. If transposition is at all involved, then it’s something simple.”

“Like the Caesar Cipher or the Date Shift Cipher?” [6]

“Yes. Only there are too many different numbers here. Of course some of them might not refer to letters. They could indicate punctuation or coordinates or-”

“How about a book cipher?” Millie burst out. It was as if she herself only heard the words when they left her mouth. She blinked in surprise, and Susan could swear actual glints appeared in her friend’s eyes when she continued: “Like the one in the Sherlock Holmes story!” Millie was almost jumping in her chair. “Where each number refers to a certain letter in Whitaker’s Almanack!” Apparently Susan’s blank stare was a bit of a let down, and Millie added somewhat irritably: “You do read, right?”

“You know I prefer not to waste time on fiction,” Susan said, rolling her eyes. The moment she did so she realised it was a gesture she had picked up from Millie.

“It’s not wasting time,” Millie objected. It was a discussion they had had several times. This time a self-satisfied smirk quickly found its way to her face. “Ha!” She poked Susan’s arm on the table. It was little more than a feathery, almost careful touch, though. “I actually just proved that!”

“If indeed it is a book cipher we are dealing with,” Susan said, pulling the paper, and in effect, her exposed arm to her. After a beat she had to admit defeat. “The characteristics do fit a homophonic substitution book cipher. In that case the first two digits could refer to page, the third to line, the forth to a word.”

“Exactly!” This time Millie’s poking finger met only the table, but that clearly wasn’t the only reason her face fell. “There’s one problem, though.”

Seeking fingers or not, Susan found herself immediately missing Millie’s enthusiasm. “What is that?”

“If this is a book cipher,” Millie said, “then we need to find the book.”

### Chapter Three: Know Your Poetry

Their room was turning from messy to chaotic. The intricate paper patterns had been abandoned, but not entirely cleared away, and now a handful of books, several empty mugs, half a bottle of brandy and a couple of pillows had been added to the mix.

Susan was rather impressed with how Millie avoided stumbling on anything as she paced the room, eyes trained on the notepad in her hand rather than her feet. Her friend was, however, anything but quiet. Even if the carpet soaked up her less than gentle footsteps there was the continuous clicking of pencil against teeth and frustrated grunts at regular intervals. It was a little distracting, but sadly did not explain why Susan’s attempts at translating the cipher were futile. 

Finally the pacing stopped and Millie voiced the thought that gnawed at both of them: “This is not working.” The dim light made her squint at her notepad before she held it out to Susan. “The most promising I’ve gotten so far is: ‘Midge eating horsy existentialist lamp’, and even then we’re talking really creative spelling!” With a sigh of resignation she dropped right were she was, on to a pillow in the middle of the floor. “Are you sure there were no other books in his room?” 

“Yes, my cousin assured me the list was complete. And these books were stowed away under our suspect’s bed, mind you, so the police search much have been thorough,” Susan said.

The list of books, typed out by her cousin or her cousin’s colleague, was on her bedside table. The white sheet of paper seemed to gleam at her, like a row of mockingly bared white teeth. Five titles, all of them with a particular bend:

 

_Erich Maria Remarque: ‘All Quiet on the Western Front’_

_Ernest Hemmingway: ‘For Whom the Bell Tolls’_

_Byron: ‘Childe Harold's Pilgrimage’_

_William March: ‘Company K’_

_Mary Agnes Hamilton: ‘Dead Yesterday’_

 

On the floor Millie let herself drop even further until she was more or less stretched out across papers and pillows. “I stand by my earlier verdict: We’re dealing with an idiot. Hiding pacifist literature, and not even hiding it well. He is begging to be charged with treason.” 

“Being a pacifist seems rather incongruous with murdering your landlord,” Susan pointed out. 

Without looking Millie grabbed for one of the spare pillows and tugged it under her head. “I said he was guilty of being an idiot, not guilty of murder.” One of her hands went up, outstretched index finger emphasising a point. “Of course, if this goes on for much longer I might die of frustration, which, I suppose, in a way makes him guilty of manslaughter.” 

Susan snorted. “Hardly. But you’re right; there’s no point in continuing with these books…” She heard her own voice trail off. The three invisible dots at the end of the sentence seemed to point in a particular direction. 

“So we’re back to square one.” 

A direction indeed. A pattern. 

“Susan?” 

A system. 

“Susan!” 

And Susan was back among the rose-patterned tapestry, the heavy curtains, the messy floor where her friend had propped herself up on an elbow and was watching her expectantly. 

“Oh. Didn’t I say anything?” I thought I did.” Susan blinked a few times. The room remained, but so did the digits in her mind’s eye. “I was just wondering about these numbers. If maybe there is in fact another pattern.” 

That got Millie’s attention. She sat up immediately. “Okay, spill.” 

“Well, say the first two digits refer to page, the third to line, the fourth to word number, and then you’re supposed to substitute with the first letter of that word. Then not only are there no references past page 84, also the second digit is never higher than 4. I find that peculiar.” 

Although Susan generally preferred to use furniture the way they were intended to be she decided to join Millie on the floor where they could both look at the same sheet of paper. She indicated a line of code. She indicated a line of code.  

_2421-2311-1261-4211-2261-6421-8261-3421-2261-5161-1331-1322-2261..._

 

Millie followed her finger and nodded slowly. “You’re right. The first is always between 1 and 8, the second between 1 and 4. And the forth is mostly a 1.” 

Susan mirrored her movement, although her own nod felt a little more eager than Millie’s seemed. “Which suggests it indicates a letter, not a word. It’s a lot easier to find a word starting with a particular letter, say Y, than to come up with a word that has Y as letter number 3 or 5. Like Jean said, this is an amateur’s work, so we should be looking for exactly these kinds of encryption short cuts!” 

Her enthusiasm, however, did not rub off on Millie. “If that’s the case, then the first three digits must indicate page, line, word. So we’re looking for a book with only 8 pages each with 4 lines, tops, printed on them. How does that even make sense?” 

“Maybe it’s not a book at all. Maybe it’s a song. Or a poem,” Susan suggested. 

“So the digits refer to verse, line, word, letter?” Millie scrutinized the coded message once again. “That might actually work.” 

“Yes. And poems and songs can be memorised, which would make encryption and decryption easier,” Susan added, feeling more than a little proud of herself. 

“Another shortcut,” Millie acknowledged. Susan saw her pride reflected in her friend’s eyes as she looked up and caught her gaze. Pride and something else that Susan couldn’t quite put her finger on, didn’t quite dare to, and the moment was quickly turning into yet another one of the items on her list of things not to be thought too long about. 

Until Millie’s face and hands fell and along with them the paper she held. “Not for us, though.” She sighed. “If our suspect memorised the key then your cousin’s book list is useless. The key could be anything.” 

Susan felt her pride waver a little, but the small optimistic amber within her did not die out. “Not anything. It consists of 8 verses, each with 4 lines,” she pointed out. 

“Still, with nothing to point us in the right direction it’s like looking for one particular grain of sand in Sahara.” Millie stretched and was about to get up from the floor, but froze mid-motion. “You’re getting that look again, Sue.” 

“It’s probably nothing, but… Hand me the book list, would you? It occurs to me that one of the titles stands out.” 

Millie did as requested. She was closer to Susan’s bedside table and able to reach without rising fully. “What do you mean? They’re all pacifist books.” 

“Yes, but by modern authors – except Byron.” Susan traced the name with her finger until she realised the ink was smearing. She repressed the urge to wipe her finger on her skirt and a striking asymmetry briefly registered: it never bothered her when Millie did something like that, but in anyone else, including herself, she found that sort of messy behaviour repulsive. “Byron’s style is very different, yet the book ended up in our suspect’s pile. And he was a poet. Do you think he might have written the key?” 

Millie shrugged. “It’s a wild shot, but it’s not like we have anything else to go on. So it’s back to the library, is it? This is going to take ages.” 

Before Susan could reply, as if on cue, there was a knock and the door was cracked open. An almost childish face peeked in tentatively, waiting for permission to enter. 

“Come in, Lucy, you know you’re always welcome.” Susan smiled at their youngest friend as she shut the door behind her with more care than either of the room’s inhabitants had ever shown. 

A true deb [7] indeed, Lucy had barely been out of school when recruited by London Signals Intelligence Centre, but neither her young age nor her less than privileged background quite explained the way she stumbled her way through social interactions. Lucy was brilliant in her own unique field, but in the more basic ones she seemed otherworldly and taunting remarks as well as nicknames had quickly begun to appear. Susan’s big sister heart had gone out to the girl and she had taken her under her wings. That put an end to the gossip. Or rather, Millie’s flair for death glares did. Because anyone messing with Lucy now messed with Susan and, by extension, with Millie. 

Lucy was currently standing in the middle of the room, seemingly a little confused as to the seating arrangements. Both armchairs and beds were stacked with papers and the pillows as well as her friends were on the floor. Millie was padding the ground next to her, but the message clearly did not come across. 

“Grab a pillow and come sit next to us,” Susan said, emphasising her point with a come hither-gesture. The frown was replaced by a dazzling smile as the young girl understood what was expected of her and obeyed. 

Susan herself felt an idea forming. “Lucy, did you read Byron in school?” 

Most people would probably be perplexed by the out-of-nowhere question, but Lucy was not most people. She simply answered the question posed to her. “I did.” 

Millie straightened, instantly realising what Susan was getting at. “But not all his work, right?” 

“Yes. Didn’t you?” 

Susan couldn’t help but smile at the genuinely puzzled look in Lucy’s light blue eyes. There was nothing condescending about her question, no hidden sarcasm; she truly believed that all students read the entire curriculum. Also, if her social faring at Bletchley was anything to go by Lucy had probably had more time for reading than most youngsters. Those reading habits and Lucy’s ability to memorise every single thing she came across would most likely have added to her exclusion. But her skills made her invaluable to the GC&CS – and would come in handy right now. 

“Even if she did, she wouldn’t remember them as well as you,” Susan said gently. “But perhaps you know how many Byron poems consist of 8 verses, each with 4 lines?” 

“Three,” Lucy replied without missing a beat and seemingly unaware of how incredible her talent was. “‘Stanzas to Jessy’, ‘Fill the Goblet Again’ and ‘Cornelian’.” 

Across from them Millie was doing her best to suppress a disbelieving grin. At Susan’s sharp look she covered it up by coughing into her hand. “I… I don’t suppose you could write them down for us?” she wondered. 

“Of course,” Lucy, always eager to please, responded. “Right now?” 

“If it’s not too much trouble.” Susan handed the girl pen and paper and Lucy immediately began jotting the poems down from memory without ever pausing to think. 

The grin overtook Millie’s face after all and she shook her head, this time in awe as much as disbelief. “I’m not a religious woman, but bless you, Lucy. Bless you.”

 

 

### Chapter Four: The Key

“I think we’ve found the key…’The Cornelian’ seems to work.” [8] The furniture was once again being put to use after a minor cleaning had made it possible. Millie was reclining on her bed and Susan, without looking up from her notebook, sat down next to her, not even thinking as she made sure to leave a couple of inches between them. It had become routine by now. “Although the actual words don’t make much sense. Perhaps we are dealing with a code within a cipher.” 

“Let me see…” Millie sat up and in the process reduced the inches between them to a few hairs’ width. Her height enabled her to read over Susan’s shoulder. “ _‘I yearn for your slender hands, your narrow hips…’_ Oh, no, it makes perfect sense. It’s a love letter.” 

“A love letter… But it’s… it’s so graphic.” Susan squeezed her eyes shut and tried to sound practical when she added: “Is that why it was coded, you think?” 

Behind her Millie was chuckling softly, her lips so close each gush of air tickled Susan’s neck. “Hardly. I’ve seen much more graphic than that. More likely he is writing to a married woman, someone whose reputation cannot be compromised.”  

_More graphic…_ Susan squirmed and felt heat rising in her cheeks. The accompanying feeling was one she easily recognised from Sunday school and her father’s preaches: Shame. At the fact that Millie had easily recognized something that she could not, a testament to how painfully inexperienced Susan was in certain areas of life. At the fact that their proximity on the bed suddenly felt inappropriate. At the perverse part deep within her that was able to read something other than innocent friendship into their current position. And, most of all, at the fact that in spite of all this shame, of all the inherent warnings, she was unable to reel in the question on the tip of her tongue: 

“You mean… you’ve read love letters like these before?” She swallowed before adding: “Is this… Is this the kind of thing you write to your… your soldiers?” 

This time the chuckle was further off to the side. Millie was settling herself next to Susan, one foot resting on the floor, the other drawn up under her. “No, they’re not that lucky.” 

Relief flooded Susan. Exactly what for she did not know; the fact that Millie’s answer clearly mattered so much to her should cause alarm. Because regardless of her long list of things not be dwelled upon she knew very well that her relief had nothing to do with a general concern for Millie’s virtue. 

“A few of them do occasionally write something like that to me,” Millie added casually. 

And just like that the relief was gone. Susan automatically folded her arms over her stomach, hoping it would quell the dull ache that was rapidly forming there. 

It didn’t. 

Millie’s voice did, however, and the bump of her shoulder when she clarified: “Not that they have actual memories to draw from. I may accept proposals by the dozen, but my hands and hips are for the select few.” 

Out of the corner of her eye Susan could tell Millie appeared earnest in spite of the jest-like tone. And she could tell she was watching her intently as if trying to read her. Afraid of what Millie might find if she looked hard enough Susan kept her gaze lowered and her response to a minimum. “I see.” 

Millie’s gaze, however, probed on. The seconds seemed to drag on and turn into minutes before something dawned on her. “Why, has no one ever written you a love letter?” Millie sounded genuinely surprised for a moment, but quickly covered it up with her usual theatricality. “Praised your slender hands, your deep dimples, your not-quite-narrow hips…?” 

The jovial shoulder bump and exaggerated diction seemed at odds with Millie’s tilted head. And the fact that the wording not simply mimicked their coded love letter, but were somewhat tailored to Susan’s face and figure was not lost on her; it made her head spin and the pain in her stomach return.   

“No, I can’t say I’ve had the pleasure,” she mumbled as she curled her left arm around her own midsection and pushed the other against the headboard for support. 

There was a beat. She breathed in. Breathed out. Tried to concentrate solely on the hard, cool and dead wood under her fingers. But then other fingers found her left arm, peeled it gently away from her body. All Susan’s awareness went to the wrong hand in that instant, the one Millie squeezed, and instead of wood what she felt was soft, warm and very much alive. 

“I’m sure you will one day,” Millie said. “It shouldn’t be a difficult letter to write.” Her voice was as soft and certain as her hand and Susan almost, almost felt if not certain, than just a little bit safe. Until she remembered the amount of danger she could be putting both of them in if she allowed herself to lean on Millie, to soak up her assurances even for a second. And so she did the opposite of what her instinct nearly drove her to do: she pulled her hand away and got up in one swift movement leaving a slightly stunned Millie behind. Her friend’s hand was still open and extended, but now held nothing but air. 

Susan couldn’t look her in the eye and so she went to her own bed and pulled the covers aside as a pretext for turning away. 

“I’m going to translate the rest of the letter straight away so it can be telegraphed to my cousin tomorrow. You shouldn’t wait up. I know you have an early shift. I’ll be quiet and cover up the lamp. Goodnight.” Susan stringed her words closely together, making it impossible for Millie to object to or question any of them 

“Okay. Goodnight,” Millie said, her voice suddenly uncertain in a way Susan had never heard before, and the queerness of it made her pause for a moment. 

Millie was always on top of things. Headstrong and unafraid were her defining characteristics. No one could push her off balance. No one except apparently… Susan bit her lower lip, weighing two kinds of shame against each other: The guilt-weighed one born out of a sense of failing as a friend. And the fearful one concerned with a possible time in the future where Susan might not be strong enough to withdraw her hand.

The second kind won out because of its obscurity, because it spoke of undefined acts not committed yet. Right now at least she knew her sin and it soiled no one else. And so Susan steeled herself against the impulse to as much as smile at her friend. She kept her back turned to her as she readied herself for bed, taking the small bedside lamp, the coded letter, poem, pen and paper with her under the covers. 

There was rustling in the room. The sound of brandy being poured, then downed. The familiar, swift _woosh_ as Millie slipped a nightgown over her head. Springs of a somewhat aged mattress dipping. A deep sigh, a lamp being switched off, and then nothing. 

If Millie remained awake, she did so in complete silence, and after a few minutes Susan felt like she alone had to carry the burden of being the only thinking, sensing person left in the night. 

Fortunately, a mind can be honed and Susan had temporarily reduced her world to less than a cubic meter of lit-up cloth cave and a coded letter. It was tangible problem that could indeed be solved, and so she decided to think of nothing else. 

This time she started from the top. Little by little, letter for letter, the numbers gave way to letters that formed words and became full sentences across her notepad. The process took time because of the poor light and Susan was too focused on each step along the way to actually take in the meaning of the letter. Until finally the message was there, fully decoded and speaking to her from the page.

 

### Chapter Five: The Message [9]  


 

_My beloved,  
_

_Your letter arrived this morning as I was heading out for work. I carried it in my pocket all day, from time to time slipping my hand in to stroke it. Now that I know the words I shall sleep with it against my cheek and it will be the next best thing to having you by my side.  
_

_Soon Christmas is upon us, and I ask for no useful presents this year. Only the hands that give it… I yearn for your slender hands, your narrow hips, the curve of your smile. Until you I did not understand what it means to ache for someone. Loving you is the most painful and the most pleasurable thing I have done. It is so intensely physical that for a while I thought that was all we were.  
_

_But I was wrong. We are so much more. More than husband and wife. For our marriage demands nothing and gives everything. It has no ring, no vows, none of the coldness of stiff formalities, yet lacks nothing in passion or companionship. Its bonds form the perfect freedom, but one I shall never again request. The idea of touching anyone but you revolts me. How does it go… With this kiss make me yours forever?  
_

_X_

The code concealed an intimate message from a man Susan had never met, intended for a woman she might never know the name of, and yet each word had an impact as she finally read the love letter. On the one hand she felt like a voyeur, an uninvited intruder peeking into a room where she did not belong. On the other hand it was hard to shake the feeling that the words were, in a way, meant for her. They were, after all, in her own handwriting, and she was reading them in the most intimate setting she could think of; there were no other eyes around, no other possible recipient in this very moment. She alone would have to decide how to respond to the words; whether to take them to heart or turn away. 

She ought to, of course. Everything she knew about right and wrong told her that much. This letter was the evidence of an illicit affair; the author might not be a murderer or a traitor, but he was no innocent. The woman he was declaring his love to was clearly neither his fiancé nor his wife. Most likely she was the wife of someone else – why else take such painstaking care to keep the letter’s content a secret. The young man was actually risking his life in order to keep it a secret. Millie was right, he was an idiot... Which meant Susan, in turn, was as well if she allowed herself to be moved by his words. Who’s the bigger fool – the fool or she who follows him? 

Yet, in spite of the context, in spite of the secrecy, there was something incredibly sweet and genuine about the letter. 

_I carried it in my pocket all day, from time to time slipping my hand in to stroke it..._

Susan found herself subconsciously caressing the letter and couldn’t help but smile as she pictured a grown man sleeping peacefully against a piece of paper. Treating it with the utmost care as if it were not just a link to the woman he loved, but her actual skin. 

Love… It seemed to pour from every word, and yet it couldn’t be. Love, the kind that stirs passion, can only be true within the confines of a marriage. Her father had taught her that. And his brothers. All the vicars of the family agreed on that much. It didn’t matter if the letter seemed sweet or sincere – by very definition it could not be. The fact that she might think otherwise, even for a second, spoke of her own weakness. 

Suddenly Susan’s cave was becoming claustrophobic, the burden of her own company too heavy, and so she switched off the lamp, pulled the covers aside and faced nothing but pitch black. It felt like a relief; she could no longer read the letter, she couldn’t even tell where she ended and the room began. It was as if she was dissolved and temporarily excused from her own existence. 

The bliss was short, however. After a few minutes her eyes had gotten used to the dark, the walls and furniture were once again solid, the clenched hands on top of her covers were her own again and on the bed across from her lay the friend she had hurt some hours ago. 

She sighed. It had seemed the right thing to do, turning away and shutting her out. And yet now, in the dark, just like the nature of the illicit love letter, things seemed less straightforward. She had hurt her friend preventatively, to prevent more serious damage. But Millie’s hand had not felt destructive. It had been soft and soothing. 

Right now said hand was tugged under Millie’s cheek. Susan could just make out the slope of her nose, her rounded brows, the curve of her smile… Susan squeezed her eyes shut as the words from the love letter washed over her. 

_Your slender hands, your narrow hips, the curve of your smile._

The words were someone else’s, but in the darkness they were quickly becoming her own and more graphic than ever. Instead of the anonymous hands of some faceless woman it conjured up the image and sensation of the hands only a few feet away. Millie’s hands. Millie’s smirking lips. Millie’s hips beneath tailored jackets tapered at the waist or the rayon of a crisply coloured dress or even the shelter suit that, when worn by Millie, actually did live up to the promise of being not only practical, but good looking in every way. 

No one knew how to make do and mend like Millie did. Spiffy, even classy, and confident – that was how Millie appeared to the world. Like someone who followed her heart and spoke her mind no matter what anyone else thought, something Susan often envied her. Only tonight Susan had caught a glimpse of insecurity in her friend, and, really, it ought not to have surprised her. Because she already knew Millie had another side to her. She knew Millie cared for people, and when she did, their opinion mattered. She cared about Susan’s opinion. In fact, she cared about Susan in a way no one really had before; without passing judgment when Susan couldn’t be as free as Millie; without expecting anything in return. 

_She demands nothing and gives everything._

Once again the words of the letter seemed to take on a new, more personal meaning. And once again they began to blur the moral lines Susan had grown up with. Giving without demanding, how could that be a bad thing? 

Across from her Millie stirred, a small sigh escaping her lips, and for a moment Susan feared she might be waking. But then she stilled again, now facing the wall and away from Susan. It didn’t make any difference. She could still se every part of her friend in her mind’s eye and it made her want to be able to look directly at her face. To be able to reach across the floor and touch it without having to wonder what it might mean. _  
_

 _Until you I did not understand what it means to ache for someone…_

The pain in her abdomen was back, only now it was pushing against the inside of her chest as well. Each and every cell of her body was telling her the same thing, to go to her friend. But she didn’t. Instead she took the love letter – the translated version in her own handwriting – folded it and carefully placed it on her pillow against her cheek. 

It would have to do. It was the next best thing. It was, in fact, all she could ever let herself have.

 

 

### Chapter Six: Where a Visitor Brings Closure

“Lucy, Millie – meet my cousin, Sam.” Two weeks had passed since Susan had telegraphed the decoded letter to her cousin, who had since then decided to pay them all a visit. 

The tea cup in Millie’s hand never reached her mouth. It didn’t return to the table either. It simply remained suspended in mid-air. “Oh. Uh.” Her utterly puzzled expression lingered for a moment as she shook her head as if to clear her thoughts. “Sam is short for Samantha? I had no idea.” 

“No?” Susan looked from her cousin to her friend and back. “I guess I never thought of mentioning that Sam was a woman,” she added almost apologetically, feeling slightly responsible for the unexpected awkward moment. 

Fortunately Millie seemed to shake it off and returned to her usual relaxed self. “Oh, well. I should not have automatically drawn the conclusion that someone working for the police would have to be male. So much for being a modern woman…” 

She extended a hand, and Sam smiled genuinely when she took it. Her bones were delicate, but her handshake was not. It spoke of strength beneath the knee-long dress she was wearing. “Well, before the war that would have been the case. And you’re not the first person to be surprised. You should have seen the look on my father’s face when I told him!” 

“Rev. Iain Stewart,” Susan interjected. She had pulled over a chair for Sam and was seating herself at the canteen table. “He’s a vicar, just like my father.” 

“And like all the other men in our family,” Sam added, an eyebrow raised that might indicate a bit of weariness with the family’s chosen profession. 

Millie seemed to catch on and asked with a small smirk: “But you’re the first Ms. Stewart to join the police?” 

“So far, yes! But these days, who knows…” With a nod Sam indicated the three women at the table as well as some of their Bletchley colleagues seated a few feet away. 

Millie followed Sam’s gaze and nodded thoughtfully. “It’s true, women are turning up in places no one expected us. I guess that’s one good thing to come out of the war. Doors are being opened.” 

Susan looked around and realised most of the people in the canteen were women. In fact, 80 percent of the people employed at Bletchley were women. Most of them Wrens, and although their dark uniforms with brightly polished buttons were issued with feminine skirts, the outfits had an unmistakable air of authority about them. [10]

“But once the war is over and the men return, we won’t be needed. Won’t we have to go back to our ordinary lives?” Lucy, for the first time, joined the conversation.

 _Won’t we have to be ordinary?_ Susan had posed the same question to Millie months earlier, at a time when Susan did not deliberately leave space between them on the bed, at the table, by the bombe, because she had not yet realised how much she wanted there to be no space at all. Millie’s response had been firm, her look intense: _I won’t let you._ It was meant as an assurance, but the words had made Susan dizzy, suddenly unsure of what she feared more; the prospect of an ordinary, predictable life already laid out before her – or the overwhelming, undefined array of options inherent in Millie’s promise. 

Millie’s response was just as firm today. “I’m not sure I could go back,” she said simply; “I know I don’t want to.” 

_Want._ A slippery slope, a dangerous concept, not bound in logic. Susan could feel Millie’s eyes on her, but instead of meeting them she cleared her throat and turned to Sam: “Anyway, you must be starving!” 

Food had always worked as the perfect diversion where Sam was concerned, and today was no exception. Sam nodded eagerly. “Oh yes, I am! I’m sorry about my late arrival, by the way. Normally my sense of directions never fails me. One of your colleagues had to show me the way.” She indicated a young, blonde man who was about to exit the canteen with a cup of tea in his hand. 

“Adam Wainwright?” Surprise was evident in Millie’s voice. 

Sam shrugged. “He didn’t say his name. But he knew you.” 

“We work in the same hut, but he’s very shy. I don’t think we’ve ever really spoken.” 

“Well, he seemed very nice. I would have thought the golf and cheese society of Bletchley [11] was a lot older and balder… But tell me: Is the food any good around here?”

“Oh, yes.” Millie leaned forward almost conspiratorially. “The kitchen even uses real butter sometimes… The boffins [12] need their energy.”

Sam’s eyes as well as her grin widened in delight. “Excellent!”

Susan couldn’t help but chuckle at her cousin’s predictability. “I’ll go and order for us. I’ll make sure you get a hearty portion, Sam.” 

The lunch crowd had mostly dispersed, and the line was short, so it wasn’t long before Susan returned with a basket of fresh rolls and an assortment of cakes. In the meantime the conversation had turned to the coded letter. Millie and Lucy were understandably curious as to whether they had helped Sam solve the murder case. 

“The murder has not yet been solved. But you helped prove our initial suspect innocent of the charges of both murder and treason. Also…” Sam grinned at the women. “…you helped me prove to my boss that I was right. So yes, you were absolutely invaluable.”

“And did you find out whom the letter was for?” Millie wondered. “They had certainly done their utmost to keep the affair a secret.” 

“An important, married woman. That’s what you suggested, wasn’t it, Millie?” Lucy asked between mouthfuls of a roll. 

“Not quite,” Sam said casually. “The letter was for a young soldier. A pilot.” 

For a moment Susan thought she had heard wrong. But Lucy had apparently heard the same: “Are they taking on female pilots in the air force now, too?” 

“No, I don’t believe so,” Sam said. 

“Then…” A confused crease appeared on Lucy’s otherwise smooth forehead. Susan could feel her own forehead become furrowed, but not because she was confused. She was wincing as pieces of a puzzle clicked into place; the secrecy, hips that were narrow, not curvy, and above all the fact that Susan had connected to the words of the letter as if they had been her own. 

She felt downright physically ill when Millie drew the unambiguous conclusion: “The letter was for another man. That actually explains a lot. Why someone might be willing to risk trial to keep the relationship a secret.” 

The last comment surprised Susan. She would never have expected Millie to understand that some relations just couldn’t be; that some lines weren’t to be crossed, and especially not out in the open. She turned to Sam for confirmation. “He was ashamed?” 

“I think he was mostly concerned for his…” Sam fumbled for the right word, before she settled for: “friend. He was deeply afraid of what might happen to him if his superiors in the army found out.” 

“What will happen?” Lucy wanted to know. 

“Well, technically both men could be imprisoned. That’s what the law says – the so-called Offences against the Person Act from the 1860s as well as the later amendment,” Sam explained, mouth full of cake. “But my boss says they’ll most likely get off with a warning. The pilot is valuable to the war effort, and the other man cannot be assigned to hard labour because of his asthma.” [13]

“ _’Offences again the person…’_ Nice and eloquent euphemism for prosecuting people who are different.” Millie’s voice was practically dripping with venom, and Susan shrank a little at the tone. So they were not on the same page, after all. Of course they weren’t. Millie was deliberately modern, regardless of the costs. 

Lucy, not sensing Susan’s discomfort, cut right to the chase: “You don’t think it’s wrong? To men, together like that?” As was always the case with Lucy, she asked an open question. No rhetorical quality to it, no tone indicating that there could only be one right answer. 

Millie’s tone of voice, on the other hand, indicated that to her there was indeed only one acceptable response, and again Susan felt herself shrinking in her chair. “No. I don’t,” Millie stated firmly, “I think people love who they love and, as long as no one gets hurt, everyone else should mind their own business.” 

As long as no one gets hurt… That was exactly what Susan wanted; to avoid anyone getting hurt. And for that very reason some things simply could not be. It seemed so obvious, yet none of the others were objecting. Hesitantly Susan tried to voice her concern. “But it does hurt people.” All eyes at the table instantly went to her and she couldn’t help but feel she was being put on the spot. It made her lose her nerve and the words that she had had on the tip of her tongue a moment ago. “Well, it’s not exactly natural,” she tried, but the argument sounded vague even to her own ears and would surely not open Millie’s eyes to the hard truth. “Just look at what happened to these young men,” she added in a rush, annoyed with her own verbal shortcomings. 

“They are being hurt by an outdated law and the reactions of small minded people, not by loving each other,” Millie pointed out, clearly missing Susan’s point. 

“Couldn’t they be hurting themselves in other ways?” Susan tried again. “Acting that way, against the intentions of…” 

_Against the intentions of God and nature_. She managed to swallow the words before they left her lips. Millie would most likely laugh at them. She wasn’t religious. She didn’t share Sam and Susan’s background and would not understand the argument. 

“They’ll never have family. Children, marriage.” Susan finally said. The words fell out of her mouth before she could think, and the moment she heard them out loud it were as if she received a kick in the chest. The words were simply too horrible. They belonged to the list of things not to be dwelled upon. Instead she had uttered them, and now they were taking on a life of their own, hanging there in the air and making it hard to breathe. 

For Susan, not for Millie. Millie just shrugged. “Family and companionship can be many things. And lots of people never have children. It doesn’t mean their lives are meaningless.” Her tone was no less insistent, but her voice had turned softer, more personal somehow, as if she were talking to one friend in particular instead of the entire table. 

The change in the atmosphere flew right past Lucy. She eagerly lifted a finger in the air. “That’s true, Millie! There are several confirmed bachelors among the professors here at Bletchley.” 

That got Millie’s attention as well as Susan’s. Millie looked completely stunned by Lucy’s sudden display of earthly knowledge. 

“What?” Lucy asked, confused as to why everyone was staring at her in surprise. 

“Who?” Susan was unable to hold her own question back, and as soon as it was out there she regretted it. Lucy would answer her truthfully, regardless of the consequences. She always did. 

“Professor Turing, for one,” [14] Lucy said casually. “And there are some women, too.” 

_Women. There are women, too._ Susan gazed intently at her plate. It seemed the safest place to look at the moment. 

“Quite right,” Millie said. “And those men and women all do their job and should be entitled to their own personal life, just like everyone else.” 

_Just like everyone else._ But they weren’t like everyone else. Millie, always living her own truth, refused to see this. It probably made her a much freer person. Susan could never imagine Millie choosing a predictable life over endless options out of fear, and she admired her friend’s courage; but she would never be able to follow her. And Millie would clearly never be able to follow her. 

Needing someone to agree with her, someone who shared her belief system and values, Susan turned to her cousin. “What do you think, Sam?” 

“What I think? I think… I think…” Sam’s mouth was stuffed and it took a few attempts and intense chewing before she could answer. “I used to think it was wrong. That people who are that way should be prevented from following their inclinations. That’s the teachings of the church and, growing up, what I was told by my father,” she explained when she could finally speak again. 

The only remaining food on the table was half a roll on Susan’s plate. Sam eyed it and eagerly accepted it when Susan pushed it over to her with a knowing smirk. Sam and her went back a long way. They knew each other’s history and quirks. They understood each other. And Sam had, consequently, given her exactly the reply Susan expected. 

However, Sam was not done. She was merely gathering her thoughts, finishing off Susan’s roll as she did so.

“But now…” she mumbled, then started completely anew: “Andrew had this friend at the air base. Turned out he was like that. And I know he came to believe his life was worth nothing because of whom he loved.” Sam’s eyes had gone distant, as if she were seeing something or someone no one else at the table were able to. “But he died protecting our country. He was a brave soldier, a skilled pilot, a loyal friend…” Her voice trailed off. Then she suddenly straightened up, and when she delivered her punch line her voice was firm. “He was just a good man, period. There was nothing morally defective about him, and he just, he deserved a full life.” She frowned, then shook her head contemplatively. “I don’t know. It may be a sin, but compared with the war going on and all it just seems rather … unimportant.”  

From across the table Millie was smiling. “Well said. In a time of so much hatred, persecuting people for loving each other is ridiculous.” 

Lucy was nodding along. In fact, everyone was nodding. Everyone except Susan. She was feeling dizzy, but in an entirely different new way. 

_Unimportant_. Sam, who had gone to the same church as Susan, listened to the same preaches at family gatherings, thought it was unimportant. Acceptable, even. That was the gist of her speech, wasn’t it? _The young man deserved a full live_. _He wasn’t morally defective_. 

Susan did not feel like she had to fight for air after a punch in the chest. Rather, she felt like all her limbs were in that hypersensitive, tingling state when the flood flows back into them after they have been freezing.

It was overwhelming, unnerving. She needed fresh air. Now. And so she pushed herself up from the chair only to lose her balance immediately as dark spots danced at the edge of her vision. 

She fell, but she didn’t hit the floor. Millie jumped up so quickly she made the chair fall over and instead of ending up on the tiled floor Susan was caught. Carefully, Millie helped her back down in her chair. “Are you alright?” Her voice was laced with concern, her warm hands automatically seeking to steady Susan. 

_Was she alright?_ Millie was obviously referring to her near-fainting, but right then the question felt much larger. Susan couldn’t possibly answer it thoroughly. Not right here, certainly not right now. 

She looked about, blinking as her vision returned to normal.Three women, good women, were looking at her with genuine worry and interest, and Susan felt something unexpected well up inside her: The urge to give them a proper answer, the full answer.

Maybe it would be possible to say some things out loud after all. Maybe certain words would be received and not just hang there and suffocate her. Maybe, if she put her answer in a letter, she could actually get all the words out. 

Susan had averted her eyes and her gaze fell upon Millie’s right hand. It was resting on her knee; she could feel the warmth of it streaming into her leg through her skirt. It felt good. Safe. As if the touch grounded her somehow. Without thinking she reached for it with her own. The movement startled Millie and seemed to make her suddenly aware of her own hand’s placement. She jerked it away as if she had been burned – or rather, as if afraid her palm might scorch Susan. However, Susan’s dizziness had waned and she was just as quick. She caught the hand mid-air and didn’t let go. Not this time. 

Millie looked up at her questioningly. Her large, brown eyes had never seemed deeper. She really did deserve an answer, Susan thought. But for now a hand-squeeze would have to do. Fortunately it seemed to do the trick. Millie’s face relaxed and the ghost of a smile snuck into it. 

Susan found herself mirroring it as she gave the short version of the much longer explanation that would have to be conveyed through a letter. Not a coded, secretive one. That would defy the purpose. “I’m alright,” she said, her smile widening a little as the realisation struck. “Or at least I think I’m going to be.”

**Author's Note:**

> SOME NOTES ON HISTORICAL DETAILS:
> 
> [1] The sensational Stocking Stick was a stick to apply leg make-up. Check out the ad for it here: http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-INBElLu3q9I/Tte0udWBBkI/AAAAAAAAAjU/WlX2VIJANsA/s1600/stocking+stick.jpg
> 
> [2] There were several versions of the ‘Careless Talk Costs Lives’ posters. I imagine the one Millie put up looked like this: http://rlv.zcache.com/what_i_know_i_keep_to_myself_poster-r2e7e9a012fca4a11913a1d05a9671639_anab3_216.jpg
> 
> [3] Bletchley Park did in fact, in one instance, recruit people through a Daily Telegraph crossword competition. Anyone who could solve it in under 12 minutes were offered a position. The winner of the competition, F H W Hawes, solved the crossword in less than 8 min. 
> 
> [4] The bombe was an electromechanical device produced by Alan Turing. It was used to descover the day-to-day settings of the Engima machine used by the Germans for encrypted communication. There were five of them. Each bombe was 2 m tall, 2 m wide, 60 cm deep and weighed a ton. It consisted of nine rows of rotaters, each row its own colour. It took two people to man one. http://benryves.com/images/bletchley_park/2010.05.08/03-Bombe-Drums.jpg
> 
> [5] Security at Bletchley Park was extreme. All staff had to sign the Official Secrets Act (1939) and were instructed that they should never discuss their work outside their immediate section. Millie is quoting a personal security form from May 1942.
> 
> [6] A cipher is a system where every letter of your message is replaced by another letter or symbol. In the case of the so-called Caesar Cipher, the alphabeth is shifted three times, whereas Date Shift Ciphers shift each letter a number of times according to key date.
> 
> [7] Boffins and debs were terms used to describe the old professors (boffins) and the young women (deb = debutantes) employed at Bletchley.
> 
> [8] The Cornelian was published in Byron's "Hours of Idleness," 1807. The poem refers to a stone, which Byron received as a hift from the choirboy, Edlestone, and there is a strong homoerotic undercurrent in the poem. 
> 
> [9] The love letter is inspired by actual love letters exchanged between men in the 20s, 30s and 40s. I found them in Richard Norton's "My Dear Boy: Gay Love Letters through the Centuries" from 1997. The last line of the letter is paraphrasing Byron.
> 
> [10] Wrens = members of the Women's Royal Naval Service. http://www.scarboroughsmaritimeheritage.org.uk/photos/wren/VEdaymay8th1945.jpg
> 
> [11] "The golf and cheese society" was ironically used to refer to the many professor types working at Bletchley.
> 
> [12] See note 7.
> 
> [13] Male homosexuality, especially anal sex, has been prohibited by UK laws for centuries. A brief historical overview:  
> \- 1533: Buggery Act: English law identified anal sex and zoophilia as offences punishable by hanging.  
> \- 1861: Offences against the Person Act, section 61: Death penalty for homosexuality is removed. However, male homosexual acts still remained illegal and were punishable by imprisonment.  
> \- 1885: Criminal Law Amendment Act, section 11: The laws regarding homosexuality are extended to include any kind of sexual activity between males.  
> \- WWII: During the war attitudes towards homosexuality relax. A vast numbers of gay people were allowed to serve in combat units, some quite openly. Soldiers caught having gay sex rarely suffered severe punishment. Sometimes just a reprimand and warning, sometimes transferred to a new unit, sometimes assigned to hard labour for a few weeks to turn them into “real men”.  
> \- 1945 to early 50s: Things change after the war. Gay men are being actively persecuted by the police and some high-profile arrests are made. Among other Alan Turing (see note 14).  
> \- 1954, August: Home Office appoints the so-called Wolfenden Committee "to consider... the law and practice relating to homosexual offences".  
> \- 1957, September: The Wolfenden Report recommends decriminalisation of homosexual acts to some extent, finding that "homosexuality cannot legitimately be regarded as a disease, because in many cases it is the only symptom and is compatible with full mental health in other respects."  
> \- 1958: The Homosexual Law Reform Society is founded and campaign for the implementation of the Wolfenden Committee's recommendations.  
> \- 1967: Sexual Offences Bill: homosexuality is decriminalised in England and Wales (not the entire UK), though certain criterias must be met. Full decriminalisation does not happen until the 80s.  
> \- 2000: Gays and lesbians are allowed to serve openly in the military.  
> Interestingly, lesbian behaviour has never been targeted by law in the UK. 
> 
> [14] Alan Turing was a scientist, mathematician, and war-time code-breaker at Bletchley Park. He was gay and convicted in 1952 for "gross indecency". He committed suicide on 7 June 1954.


End file.
